Sandpaper
by penny4him
Summary: "In the end, he chose that bundle of sandpaper because it was black. Black as midnight. Black as the darkness that hid his tears. Black as the thoughts that condemned & haunted him." Michael Scofield can't right the wrongs of the past, but being alone is what's really killing him inside. Linc's no guardian angel, but he's there for his brother, if Michael will talk to him.
1. Chapter 1

_The recognizable characters appearing in this story are © The Fox Broadcasting Company. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by the author for the writing of this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the copyright holders is intended; neither should any be inferred._

* * *

 **Sandpaper**

Michael brushed his fingertips over the small sample square of sandpaper mounted on the edge of the hardware store shelf. His hand shook slightly, and he closed it into a fist, nails biting into his palm. Weighted CW 100. "For curved applications and removing minor imperfections." _Imperfections_. If only it could remove everything that was imperfect in his life. In the end, he chose that bundle of sandpaper because it was black. Black as midnight. Black as the darkness that hid his tears. Black as the thoughts that condemned and haunted him. If the inward pain found outward expression, perhaps at least it could be somewhat alleviated. Bandaged. _Controlled_. His mouth twisted into a grimace. He had no more control over his life than he did over the inaccessible pins and tumblers that had kept him locked in that storage closet at the foster-parents-from-hell's house so many years ago. His stomach burned, acid rising, and Michael jerked the package of sandpaper off of the shelf with his bottom lip clenched between his teeth hard enough to make him taste blood. He turned on his heel and hurried to the cash register, eyes on his scuffed white runners.

"Find everything you were looking for?"

He nodded without looking up to attach a face to that matronly voice. His eyes were stinging, and the cashier might notice, might compare his tear-filled eyes with the package of sandpaper and _know_.

"That's $5.19."

Michael thrust the crumpled five on the conveyor belt, sweaty from his palm. He dug in his jeans pocket, desperate for some change. How could he have forgotten about the sales tax? The blood pounded in his ears as he came up empty-handed, finally finding his wallet on his left hip instead of his right. He tugged at the snap and coins flew, raining down with sharp _ting-tings_ on the floor tiles like so many candies from a birthday piñata. On hands and knees he scooped them up, face burning. A quarter had rolled under the conveyor belt, and he swiped a hand out for it.

Their fingertips touched. The cashier had knelt to help him retrieve his coins, and damn if she didn't somehow look like mom. "There now. It's alright."

He stood and shook his head in mute denial, even as the tears began to roll down his cheeks. Two dusty dimes found their way on to the counter. It wasn't alright. It would never be alright again. Michael Scofield grabbed his package of sandpaper and fled.

* * *

Lincoln just wanted to get drunk, get laid, or both. Saturday nights alone had a propensity to do that to a man. But somehow tonight his kid brother was messing that all up. Michael hadn't called, hadn't been around, but Lincoln couldn't get him off of his mind. He sighed and crushed out his cigarette against the brick wall of the bar, breathing out a long stream of smoke. Maybe it'd all started when he'd fumbled with his wallet while paying for the pack of cigarettes at the gas station; Michael's creased and worn grade ten school picture had slipped out on to the floor. Lincoln shook his head to clear it and ran a callused hand over the three days of stubble on his chin. He had to get home.


	2. Chapter 2

The rasp of the sandpaper against his skin felt calm and relaxing, methodical and precise. The pain of it felt just. Michael took a deep breath and pressed harder, the next stroke of the sandpaper leaving warm, welling blood in its wake. His heart began racing, and he scored the skin from his leg, deeper, harder, until the blood ran down his shin, washed his foot, dripped onto the tile floor that supported him, tracing the line of the grout.

A sound, barely discernible above the hum of the bathroom fan, registered somewhere through the haze, somewhere in the back of his mind. Keys jangling? The door to the apartment banged open and Michael froze, bloody sandpaper poised. The thrill, the adrenaline, went out of him with the sound of his brother's footsteps in the entry, clunky boots heavy in the hall.

"Michael? Michael, are you here?"

Lincoln's voice was loud, but Michael didn't answer. His hand felt suddenly heavy. He lowered it to the floor, his chest tight. His leg was slick and wet, the flesh raw and ruined on his shin, and he bit his lip, choked back the vomit that started to claw at his throat. A biology lesson played itself in the back of his mind – _the epidermis covers the dermal layer, rich with capillaries_. If he squinted, he felt he could see each tiny blood vessel, ripped open and oozing, shocked at the sudden loss of their protective cover, exposed. _He must be going insane_.

"Michael!"

The voice was right outside of the bathroom door now, followed by a pounding fist.

"Michael, open the door!"

He turned his head toward the sound and swallowed the bitterness in his throat. "Piss off." It came out weak and raspy.

"Michael? I said open the damn door!"

He grimaced and rocked his head back against the wall, the fingers of his right hand dropping the clenched sandpaper and idly tracing designs in the spilled drops of blood on the floor. A frowning face. A heart. He looked down at it, eyes confirming what his fingers knew. A heart? Why had he drawn a _heart_? Michael's eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened into a thin line. He dashed the heart away, but the edges had already partially congealed. His oozing leg provided more paint, and he swiped three fingers down it, clenching his teeth. The back of his mind registered a thumping sound, loud words, his name, but none of that seemed important. He smeared the blood, erasing what was too painful to consider, what had been taken from him. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. His chin sagged against his chest and he slumped forward, wrapping his arms around his legs, the bloody one burning anew, hot and angry against his forearm. Michael pressed his mouth against his knee, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, but still the hot tears escaped, fighting their way past his defenses with one inexorable thought – what would mom think?

And then the door exploded.

* * *

A/N: I want to say, you may think you're alone, but you're not. There are people you can turn to. There is always Someone you can turn to. Yes, Prison Break and Michael are brilliant, but this isn't the answer. It's not. It bears repeating: You are not alone. Just have a little faith.


	3. Chapter 3

"Michael, what the _hell_?"

Lincoln's voice came to him distorted and vague, as if he were underwater. Michael's ears rang, and he rocked his head back and forth on the cool tiles of the bathroom wall, fingers idly brushing over the now-dried designs painted in his own blood on the floor.

Lincoln grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him forward, his grip tight and his eyes wild. "Michael, look at me, man. Are you alright?"

Michael began to laugh bitterly, a low, choked sound in his throat, but it soon turned to sobbing, ragged and uncontrollable.

Lincoln sat down right there and pulled him forward roughly, hugging his brother hard as the sobs shook his body.

Lincoln's leather jacket had the ever-present smell of cigarette smoke – not exactly pleasant, but comforting in its familiarity. "I'm all alone," Michael finally choked out.

"No, man. You're not."

Michael pushed away from him, wiped snot from his face, and had the dignity to look embarrassed. "Why'd you come home?"

Lincoln scrubbed both hands through his close-cropped hair and looked at his younger brother's raw wound. "I knew something was wrong. Can't explain how." He searched the sixteen-year-old's face. "Why'd you do it, Michael?"

Michael frowned. "Everything hurt so bad inside. I needed to get it out where I could deal with it."

"That's not the way, man!"

Michael's frown deepened. "Then what is? Smoking? Drugs? Alcohol? Girls?"

Lincoln sighed and ran a hand over his face. All the things that he tried, thrown back in his face. "Mike..."

"It's Michael."

"I know." He looked at him again and softened his tone. "Why does it hurt inside?"

Michael shrugged and looked down. "I guess because I'm all alone."

"You're not alone."

Michael looked up with a glare. "I am! Dad left, mom died, and you're never here! I'm all alone, and it hurts like you died too!"

Lincoln looked away, exhaling a long breath. He put a hand against his chest, the accusation like an arrow of physical pain. A million excuses tripped through his mind. He pushed them away and met Michael's eyes. "You're right, man. I'm sorry." His voice was quiet.

Michael's eyes widened a little, but he didn't say anything.

Lincoln squared his jaw. "I'm here now, Michael, and I'm gonna be here."

Michael's eyes stung with tears. "Really?" The word came out choked.

Lincoln nodded firmly. "Really. I'll do whatever it takes to take care of us, Michael. To take care of you. And I'm here for you."

Michael swiped his sleeve over his nose again. "Okay, Linc. I...I hope so."

"I'm here, man." Lincoln got to his feet and offered Michael a hand, pulled him up.

Michael hissed in a sharp breath between his teeth and groaned, grabbing the edge of the sink and swaying. "Shit, that hurts! Hurts worse than when I did it!"

Lincoln crossed his arms over his chest. "Rubbing all the skin off will do that, I imagine. Let's get you cleaned up." He opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the bottle of peroxide.

Michael's eyes widened and his face paled. "Not that."

Lincoln pointed to the edge of the tub. "Sit down. You're the one who wanted to feel your pain on the outside, so sit down and take the consequences like a man."

Michael glared at his older brother, but he sat. "That's not funny."

Lincoln slammed the bottle down unopened. "No, it's not! And you know what else?" His eyes took in Michael's skinned leg and the bloody smears on the floor again, and they blazed. He leaned in close. "If I _ever_ find out that you hurt yourself again, it's not just peroxide you're gonna feel. It'll be my fists on the sides of your face! You got that?" His hands clenched and unclenched, and his chest heaved.

Michael squinted at his older brother, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. _There_ was the Lincoln he knew. "It...it won't happen again, Linc."

"Good!" Lincoln opened the peroxide and poured it without further preamble.

Michael stifled a groan and closed his eyes. He jammed his knuckles against his mouth. After a second he felt Lincoln hugging him roughly.

"I love you, Michael. I never want you to hurt yourself, okay? I'm here for you."

Michael nodded and hugged his brother hard, his face pressed against Lincoln's shoulder. "Thanks, Linc. I love you too."

* * *

A/N: (Now complete). I will say it again: You may think you're alone, but you're not. There are people you can turn to. There is always Someone you can turn to. Yes, Prison Break and Michael are brilliant, but this isn't the answer. It's not. It bears repeating: You are not alone. Just have a little faith.


End file.
